Words Steve Sharman
Goals in added time can secure famous victories, rescue dying dreams, and break the most patriotic of hearts.
As the dust settles on Gareth Southgate’s opinion dividing tenure as England boss and Lee Carsely’s short lived caretaking - and the English psyche grapples with the appointment of German Thomas Tuchel - Steve Sharman reflects on a selection of late goals that have helped shape English football history, and their impact on his own path through life.
From match-winning moments of individual brilliance to penalty shootout misery, supporting England at major tournaments is rarely dull.
Like so many, I’ve grown up with the Three Lions. A tempestuous relationship built on heroic failures and soul-crushing underachievement, punctuated by bouts of fervorous optimism and unadulterated joy. Where the perpetual cycle of hope only serves to exacerbate the sting of inevitable disappointment.
As in life, the highs and lows of watching England are magnified even further when the final act of the drama is played out at the death. What is the power of the last-minute goal? Perhaps when something we dream of is within touching distance, but is snatched away from our grasp right at the end, the sense of loss is more intense; or, when hope is all but extinguished, the rewards of a last minute reprieve taste even sweeter.
Just a boy
Late goals in football can create those single, history-making, life-changing moments; a flashbulb memory that stays with us forever.
My first experience of late drama came during the 1990 World Cup – the one that got eight-year-old me hooked: Toto Schillaci, Panini stickers, Roger Milla, the San Siro, Nessun Dorma. Laying on the floor of the kitchen whilst my Mum cooked our tea, leafing through a battered Reader’s Digest atlas trying to locate countries I’d never previously known existed. Letting the almost mystical names of players roll off my tongue: Claudio Canniggia. Tomas Skuhravy. Francois Oman-Biyik. Carlos Valderamma. New words. New worlds.
But it was more than crazy hair, colourful kits, and flamboyant theatrics that followed both goals and fouls; Italia ‘90 was the summer of staying up late, way past my bedtime. Of being treated almost like an adult, of seeing the passion football could ignite in others. It was the summer a little boy found his purpose in life, a boy whose dreams were ignited.
No-one did more for that than David Platt. Confined to the island of Sardinia, England had progressed from a tight group after draws with Ireland and the Netherlands, and a narrow 1-0 win against Egypt. The Egypt game was the first one I was allowed to stay up late to watch, and when Mark Wright’s header sealed top spot for England and put us into the Round of 16, my Dad decided I was a lucky charm. So, I was allowed to stay up for the Belgium game too.
That game seemed to drag on forever, and as the minutes ticked by and England didn’t score, I remember getting more nervous. The final whistle blew, all square. Maybe my luck was wearing off. I was terrified, unsure if it was my fault we were not winning. Wasn’t I supposed to be lucky? I didn’t want to let them down. And then, as the minutes in extra time disappeared and penalties loomed ever closer, it happened.
119 minutes on the clock.
An exhausted Gazza was fouled midway into the Belgian half. This was it. Last chance saloon. Time slowed down as I perched on the edge of our brown patterned sofa, gripped my carton of Um-Bongo even more tightly than I had been for the previous 29 minutes, and held my breath.
Gascoigne picked himself up and clipped a tired ball into the box. David Platt shrugged off his marker and as the floated ball dropped over his shoulder, he swivelled and smashed an unstoppable first time volley into the far top corner.
What. A. Goal.
The stadium exploded. The players went wild. Our living room erupted. John Motson’s famous words fizzed across the airwaves – ‘England have done it – in the last minute of extra time’. They celebrated. We cheered. I cried happy tears. With one deadly, last-minute swing of his right boot, Platt had vanquished all the anxiety, all the nerves, and ensured the greatest summer ever continued and unbeknownst to my naive heart, had sown the seeds for a lifelong love affair with football.
A younger man
Fast forward ten years, and the relationship had fully blossomed. Gone was the wide-eyed eight-year-old experiencing tournament football for the first time, replaced by a cocksure 18-year-old to whom football was everything. From spray-painting St. George’s crosses on our closely shaved heads, to pouring the pounds of our minimum wage shop jobs straight down our necks, nothing was more important, and tournament football drew us all closer together. Buoyed by the freedom granted by finishing exams and leaving school, our summer revolved around Euro 2000.
Small town squabbles and petty school rivalries were cast aside as football did what it does best – unite us all behind a cause, brothers in arms with a common enemy. We kicked every ball, and lived every moment. We could take on the world, and as a young man surrounded by friends with not a care in the world beyond the drink in my hand and the game on the screen, that summer I felt invincible. We all did.
Boasting a squad brimming with talent, and Emile Heskey, pre-tournament hopes had risen, as ever, sky high. Drawn in a tough group, an opening defeat against Portugal was followed by a narrow 1-0 win over Germany leaving us needing just a point against Romania to effectively secure progress to the quarter finals. Even when Cristian Chivu gave Romania an unexpected lead, our spirits were not dampened. We were singing, we were dancing, we were 18 and we didn’t care we were getting smashed on a Tuesday and when a quickfire Alan Shearer and Michael Owen double gave us the lead, we were already planning our path to the final and racking up the vodka Red Bulls. Early in the second half, Dorinel Munteanu equalised for Romania but it almost felt like it didn’t matter. Portugal were battering Germany, so a point was enough. Best Tuesday night ever? Probably.
But then Phil Neville got involved.
Late on, Romanian winger Viorel Moldovan surged into the box. Neville lunged in, succeeding only in taking him out and leaving the hopes and dreams of an entire nation hanging by a thread. In an instant – in the very last minute – the fragility of England’s lead, of the rest of the night, of the rest of our summer was laid uncomfortably bare.
Up stepped Ionel Ganea and calmly stroked the ball into the corner of the net, putting Romania through and consigning England to more heartbreak. In an instant the summer frivolity died, the party was over, and the last round of shots suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. And there it was; nothing in life is certain.
Nothing lasts forever.
An older man
Football provides us wonderful highs and terrible lows, much like life itself. It’s now 2024 and in some ways, nothing has changed – in others, everything has. England barrelled into another major tournament with a crop of exceedingly talented young players, raising expectations far above where they should have been. Some bookies even had us as favourites, although my own personal expectations were somewhat less grandiose, worn down by years of disappointment.
While England expects, gone are the boozy, smoky, raucous, pub atmospheres of tournaments past, replaced by a Sunday afternoon BBQ at the in-laws, where I take a prime spot on the comfy sofa with a cup of tea to watch the Slovakia game and try to put my 9am Monday meeting out of my mind.
Surrounded by three generations of family – my children, their cousins, my wife, her sisters, and their parents – I can’t help but smile. I’ve found my place. It might not be the superstar football career that eight-year-old me dreamed of all those years ago watching England at Italia 90, but it’s beautiful, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Although as ever thoughts of those who can’t be here flicker across my mind, the game starts with one daughter curled up on my lap, and the other sitting between my feet. It’s a lovely moment in time, a moment that surely not even England can spoil.
Clearly, I haven’t learnt a thing.
England seem determined to bring the tedious approach of the group stage to the knockout stage and Slovakia take the lead when, played onside by a woefully out of sorts Kyle Walker, Ivan Schranz gets the wrong side of Marc Guéhi and slots the ball past Jordan Pickford.
Boos ring out as we go in at half time 1-0 down, the patience of those clad in white in the stands wearing pizza-box thin. The continued frustration at Gareth Southgate’s refusal to make changes to take a game by the scruff of the neck is evident in my in-laws’ front room too, but the energy and the passion doesn’t come from me anymore. It is my nephews who are shouting at the screen; to them, this really matters, and I can’t help but see a lot of myself in them.
Early in the second half, the joy that sparks from an early equaliser is quickly extinguished as Phil Foden’s goal is ruled out for offside, Harry Kane misses the kind of headed chance you’d back him to score 99 times out of 100, and Declan Rice hits the inside of the post – it definitely starts to feel more and more like one of ‘those’ games.
The 90 minute mark comes and goes. The 4th official shows us six minutes of added time.
Some are resigned to defeat. Some still believe.
95th minute. It's now or never.
With seconds remaining, a long throw comes in, Marc Guehi flicks it on and golden boy Jude Bellingham soars acrobatically through the air, his outrageous overhead kick finding the back of the net. We all leap off the sofa and although it isn’t quite a boxpark beer explosion, the dregs of a cup of tea and half a can of Tango are definitely sent flying and the dog who had been sleeping at my father-in-law’s feet jumps to attention, startled. Sensational scenes.
Another summer temporarily saved, deep into added time. Harry Kane finally finds the target early in extra time, and England are through. Another tournament, another emotional rollercoaster; goals in added time never get any less dramatic.
Life goals
So what is the power of late goals? Perhaps the life stage in which they come can influence their lasting legacy. Platt’s winner stirred something within my naive and innocent eight-year-old self, the fledgling heartbeats of a lifelong love affair with football. Neville’s last minute lunge taught me that while in that moment it felt like the world would end, in reality, it didn’t. I began to get an inkling that maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than football.
When Bellingham produced his moment of magic, I wasn’t sitting on a sofa with my Dad with a carton of Um-Bongo dreaming of being a footballer. I wasn’t soaked in beer, arms around my mates, screaming at the big screen. Instead, I was surrounded by people I love with a full belly, a comfy seat, and a good view, getting at least as much joy from the looks on their faces as I did from what was happening on the pitch.
All the joy, all the pain, the highs and lows of the emotional rollercoaster of life and of watching football are magnified when that emotion is condensed into a single moment. Late goals are truly the pinnacle of sporting theatre and no matter how cynical the long and winding road of life makes us on the outside, the child inside can still be made to believe. In major tournaments, those dramatic late goals can bind people together – friends, family, strangers – no matter the life stage, in a way that only football can.
That, is the true power of watching England, and that, is the true power of a last-minute goal.
